


Pressure Points

by BeatrixKiddo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aggressive Mycroft, Angst, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Fluff, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, M/M, POV Lestrade, Possessive Mycroft, Roughness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 20:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3502256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeatrixKiddo/pseuds/BeatrixKiddo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg smiled to himself as the fingertips began their methodical examination near his left shoulder again, trailing downward and swirling like before, with significantly more pressure, bordering on uncomfortable. And then, like embers finally catching dry kindling, Greg was fully alert.  Greg’s eyes opened, and he tensed his back under the intensifying ministrations, as if he were straightening his posture in bed.  He inhaled deeply and tried to relax himself, but it was too late.  Whatever time he needed to ascertain the severity of the situation was lost with the recognition that he needed it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressure Points

 

Lestrade rubbed his tongue on the roof of his mouth. A filmy toothpaste residue. Good God that’s disgusting. He would rather have woken up with that bloated, beer feeling. Wait; he didn’t have that. Shit. Whiskey then. _Alright. Am I hung over?_ Greg scrunched his eyes shut as tight as possible and then released without opening his eyes. He waited for the reverberations of a headache: nothing. Little blessings, as Mum would have said. Still, he had a dull ache in his shoulder and he refused to open his eyes. _Why the hell am I awake?_ Shifting slightly on his stomach, he moved one arm underneath the pillow so it was out from the weight of his head and exploring a colder part of the sheets. _Much better._ He groaned quietly and turned his head so the other cheek could feel the warmth of the pillow. And then he felt it. Fingertips lightly brushed the hair on his back, near where his shoulder and neck met, and quickly skimmed halfway down his back, swirling a few times slightly askew to his spine. They moved delicately, but determinedly down his spine, diagonally across his arse to where his thigh began. A whole palm added pressure there, and Greg moaned more deeply than before, letting it resonate in his throat and vibrate in his elongated neck, his chin tilted up toward the headboard. _Mycroft._

This was a brilliant way to wake up to the British Government in your bed. Far better than the time Mycroft had tapped rhythmically on the bedpost with the buckle from his belt, still attached to the trousers he had discarded somewhere after the pub. It had been like a gentler version of water torture, the clinking slowly ebbing into his sedated unconscious until a throbbing headache had fully awoken him to Mycroft’s clenched teeth and furrowed brow; subsequently, Greg had always remembered to pick up his clothes off the floor, no matter how tipsy he was or how late he got back home.

Or there was the morning Mycroft had carded dexterous fingers through his hair from temple to just above the nape to wake him, then pinioned Greg’s arms with his own body weight and yanked Greg’s hair until his jugular was stretched so tight he couldn’t swallow and was taking shallow breaths. After several jerky, reflexive kicks, Greg had stamped out his instincts and stayed still until Mycroft’s smirk slinked into his peripheral vision; Greg whispered a desperate, non-descript apology, which had earned him a bruising kiss and an invitation to lunch. Lunch turned out to be at a posh barbershop that gave straight razor shaves. Mycroft had never joined him for lunch (or a haircut), but sex that evening had been even more forceful than usual and particularly sensual and satisfying. It was usually that way after Greg went to the pub, forgoing some minor social infraction upon his return and enjoying the aggressive sex afterwards.

Early on, Greg had reasoned with himself that his feeble brain was simply unable to predict what would set Mycroft into his little rages. He would have worried about their gradual escalation, but even he could recognize that his frustration with being physically accosted was eclipsed by his body’s responses: heavy breathing, traveling gooseflesh, bulging trousers. He often found himself reclining in his chair at work, replaying those post-pub mornings and Mycroft’s resultant belligerent mood. _Good God, those rages were hot._ Greg smiled to himself as the fingertips began their methodical examination near his left shoulder again, trailing downward and swirling like before, with significantly more pressure, bordering on uncomfortable. And then, like embers finally catching dry kindling, Greg was fully alert. _Mycroft hates it when I go to the pub._ Greg’s eyes opened, and he tensed his back under the intensifying ministrations, as if he were straightening his posture in bed. _Why am I awake?_ He inhaled deeply and tried to relax himself, but it was too late. Whatever time he needed to ascertain the severity of the situation was lost with the recognition that he needed it. The heel of Mycroft’s palm dug deep into the fibrous tissue of his thigh and sent a sharp and reverberating jolt of pain up his leg and into his spine. Greg bit down hard to bear through the lingering spasm. He buried his face into the pillow and huffed a grunted yell into the fabric, shaking his head back and forth until the pain subsided and he was able to turn his face slightly and breathe.

“Mycroft!” Greg roared and lifted himself just enough on an elbow to slowly scrub his palm roughly down his forehead, nose, mouth. “Not. Sexy. What the hell?”

This was, evidently, not what Mycroft wanted to hear. In quick succession, Mycroft stabbed his thumb-reinforced with his fist-just below the nape of his neck, halfway down his spine, and into his kidney. Needles ricocheted from each pressure point, sending shallow bursts of pain in every direction. Curling into himself reflexively, Greg managed to roll onto his side and grab Mycroft’s forearm fluidly.

“Enough!”

Panting, he squeezed Mycroft’s arm tightly, wrinkling his perfectly starched shirt. Greg popped free the shoulder stuck under his body so that he would have more mobility; he finally looked at Mycroft, fully clothed as if he’d worked all night, but without his usual world-weary, depleted slump. His eyes were narrowed and alight. Greg hid his genuine concern with an exaggerated sigh. “What did I do now?”

“Try. To remember.” Mycroft flexed the fingers in his captured hand, and Greg could feel the muscles moving beneath the shirt and his thumb and fingers. He relaxed his grip slightly but didn’t release it. As Mycroft was fond of teasing him, he was slow, but not stupid.

“I was out at that pub by Jeff’s, watching the match. Not a punishable offense, Mycroft. It’s too early for this shit.” Greg threw Mycroft’s arm at him, only just now registering his annoyance that their little game had gone from arousing to excruciating. “Did I track mud in your precious foyer? Leave one of your umbrellas at The Lions Head? Christ. That was bloody painful.” He propped his arm awkwardly underneath himself to knead the echo of pain out of his upper shoulder.

“Backache?” Mycroft lifted one eyebrow and pursed his lips together.

“Yes, actually. Smug git. Not entirely your doing, but no doubt you capitalized on my soreness from yesterday’s training exercises, so thanks for that.” Later, Greg would realize that Mycroft’s eye roll should have given him enough pause to realize he wasn’t actually gloating, but Greg was too wound up to notice.

Mycroft’s response was void of any inflection, “Perhaps a massage.”

Greg snorted. “Good to know you don’t consider what you just gave me a massage.”

“No, Gregory. That was a reminder. Yet another reminder.”

“What the hell are you on about? Reminder?”  

“Mmm. To whom you belong.”

Greg immediately stopped kneading his shoulder; his irritation dissipated. He closed his mouth tightly and swallowed. _Don’t say anything stupid._ That was definitely a declaration. Not a profession of love, but damned close for Mycroft’s brand of affection. This was good. Very good. He ventured a sideward glance at Mycroft and furrowed his brow in confusion. Then why was Mycroft descending into fury? _Don’t screw this up, Greg._ Mycroft sucked his teeth; it was unattractive and terrifying. _Focus. Why do I need a reminder?_

Still suspended in his awkward position attempting to nurse his aches, Greg remembered. He was rubbing his shoulder last night while waiting for a taxi, enjoying the brief reprieve from the rain. Jeff had given his other shoulder a hearty, teasing slap before brushing away Greg’s hand and digging little circles with his thumb into the sore spots. Greg hadn’t realized he’d tilted his head, closed his eyes, and leaned backward until he smelled the exhaust from the idling cab.

He had been tired from a long day of combat training, a long week of paperwork without a single intriguing case. Sherlock wasn’t the only one who got bored. Not entirely his fault. _Right?_ Still, Greg felt the bridge of his nose warming slightly and a hint of blush spreading down to his cheeks. _Has Jeff been flirting with me?_ He took himself back two weeks, right after the Morrison double homicide. The match was mediocre at best, but the pub had been packed. They’d spent most of the time crowded close together at the bar reminiscing about university, the foolish things they’d done, the ridiculous things they’d worn. Greg hadn’t always been grey, Jeff had joked; with a firm tug on the hair at the side of his head, Jeff had reminded him how he also had more time to get haircuts back then. Greg had leaned his head against Jeff’s and laughed heartily. After 14 hours chasing Sherlock and his shadow all over London, he’d been lucky he had lasted past halftime.

Before that had been while Mycroft was away at some undisclosed location going on three weeks. He’d gotten pissed and started rambling. But he distinctly remembers pulling Jeff in by his belt buckle, asking him what the bloody hell Mycroft Holmes was doing with a divorced, mediocre detective inspector who gestures with his fork when talking with his mouth full.  

“Oh, Christ.” Greg let himself fall onto his back and scrubbed all ten fingers through his hair before lacing his fingers behind his head. The belt buckle, the pulled hair, the violent, sadistic back massage. Very specific reminders. Very specific punishments. Jeff had most definitely been flirting with him. _Fuck. I’ve been flirting with Jeff._

Greg licked his lips. “I didn’t…I wouldn’t...” Greg pulled his elbows together, covering his face from several realizations. _This is it. I’m gonna lose him._ He crunched himself up into a sitting position, knees bent, his back to Mycroft. _Sneaky bastard._ “You had surveillance on the pub. In _and_ out? CCTV? But how did you…” Greg trailed off, shaking his head.   “Don’t go blaming Jeff for this. I don’t want him drugged and wandering around Siberia.”

“Not your best course of action right now,” Mycroft droned behind him, “prioritizing his welfare over your own.”

“Is that a threat? You’re threatening him? Or me?”

“Stating facts.”

“Don’t toy with me, Mycroft. I’m trying to find a way to apologize. To fix this.” And then without such vehemence, “Please just let me fix this. I would never have…just…Jeff shouldn’t be punished for my mistakes.”

“So you agree I should punish you?”

“I didn’t say that.” Greg bit out. He inhaled and held it. _Did I say that? Do I think that?_ He let out his breath slowly. “I’m sorry I acted the way I did. I was at the pub. I wasn’t thinking.”

“And yet when we’ve dined at various other establishments you’ve never fallen prey to this infliction. At least no more than usual.”

“Damn it, Myc. Be patient. I’m thinking now.”

“Yes, but unbearable slowly, and my patience wore thin getting you to this point, so _do_ proceed with a bit more speed.”

“Yeah, alright, alright.” Greg spun onto his knees and sat back on his ankles, facing Mycroft. He waited until he was looking at him, feigning indifference. _Think, Greg. He’s still right here. Waiting. What does he want? What does Mycroft Holmes want?_ Greg licked his bottom lip and unintentionally let it catch in his teeth for a brief moment. Mycroft tilted his head slightly, raised his eyebrows. Greg straightened, emboldened. He dropped a fleeting, predatory gaze to Mycroft’s mouth and regained eye contact. “No more late nights with Jeff. Or casual…touching. With anyone.”

“Continue.”

Not sure which aspect of his apology he was supposed to continue, he pursued both. Greg rubbed down his bent legs slowly with both palms, letting his thumbs slide down the crease from his hips to his inner thighs and toward his knees, pulling his pants taut over his crotch. “Only one whiskey per pub night. Or two pints.” As an afterthought, Greg smiled and added playfully, “And as my punishment, you can have me. Right now.”

Mycroft snaked a hand up to Greg’s wrist, stilling his hands. “Be. More. Specific.” He tugged Greg hard and fast, toppling him forward until he was on all fours.

Greg wasn’t smiling anymore. Mycroft had leaned back against the headboard and carefully started to uncuff his sleeves; Greg’s pulse was rising with every yank on the loosening tie. This was usually Greg’s favorite part: disarming Mycroft, one piece of clothing at a time. Greg stared at those fingers, momentarily suspended at their task, fondling the silk knot teasingly. _More specific?_ He hovered on all fours, still watching the knot on the tie slowly slide downwards. Barely audibly, Greg whispered, “I don’t know how to be more specific, Mycroft. I’ll want to give you what you want. Just tell me what you want.”

“That will do just fine, Gregory.” With that, Mycroft stood abruptly. He put a hand up just as Greg started to shift, pinning him on all fours with this little gesture. Greg flushed at how exposed he was, crouched on the bed, watching Mycroft efficiently unbutton his shirt, remove his trousers, and fold both neatly on the back of the chair beside the bed.

“Down. On your stomach.”


End file.
